I sat quietly, weighing my options: what to do, what to do? I had to do something. She was more beautiful than intially hyperbolized. I longed to stare into her intoxicating eyes and breath deep of her spirit, her soul… her.
Then I ran into the major problem with sitting next to hot girls on the train. True, there are benefits. Yes, there is the offhand contact; a brush of her hand against yours that, while ever so brief, changes your life. Yes, there is the offhand chance you might get the opportunity to actually talk to her. But the major problem with having a hot girl sit right next to you is: it’s really hard to keep looking at her.
Oh, sure, at first it just seems annoying. "You know, I kinda wanna check out this girl, but she’s right next to me; she’d obviously notice me looking at her. Oh, well." Oh, well. Oh, well, indeed. But then it starts knawing at you, like a wolverine knawing it’s own leg off to escape a bear trap. Well. Sort of like that. Nonetheless, it knaws to some extent! "I can’t believe I can’t look at this girl! She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and she’s closer to me than she ever will be again, a-and yet I can’t even turn my head two inches to look! Because she’ll see! Wh-…. damn it!" Yes. Damn it. But you can’t look; you just can’t.
And so I waited. I would talk to her. I needed an in. And then fate smiled one last time.
She moved to go to her bag; she got out a pad of paper and pen to jot down some notes (probably a brilliant symphony or an idea for the great American novel). She finished her notes. She put back the pad. She went to put back the pen….
She dropped it. She picked it up again…
And dropped it. She picked it up, and she dropped it a third time! And right under my foot! I went to get the pen, to have a moment with her and make a wry, Cary Grant-style comment as I handed the pen back to her, but she moved quick. She had already picked it up. I had to move. I had seen all the pen-dropping; she was amused with the whole situation. All I needed was one perfect line; one perfect witty sentence to keep her laughing and to throw a crowbar into the open door in front of me. I racked my brain; I searched; I tried as hard as I could; but…
Nothing.
I calmed myself; not that much time had passed; I was trying too hard, as I always did. I’m a funny guy; I’m fuckin’ irreverant. I just needed to open my mouth and say whatever came out, and it would be perfect and witty and sharp and wonderful, and she’d laugh, and we’d talk, and we’d probably set up a lunch date for that very afternoon. So I opened my mouth, confident in myself and my brain, and out it came:
"B-bad start!"
Wh-… what does that-….? What? "Bad start"? I begged my brain to tell me what in God’s name had I just said? "Bad start," my brain said, "You know, like, ‘Oh, you dropped your pen three times, what a bad way to start the day.’ You know…. bad start." I have never disliked my brain so much as in that moment. It’s a point of contention between us actually; we don’t speak anymore.
I looked to the angel for help, perhaps, as in the movies, she’d sense my hideous attempt at contact for what it was. She’d see I was a nice guy who was thrown by her beauty and left speechless. Well… mostly speechless except for things like "bad start". She’d be attracted to my fumbling and bumbling; her eyes would light up and she’d realize that I was all she was looking for; I’d be Hugh Grant instead of Cary, but still get the girl.
Life is not like the movies. Not for me at least. I dunno, maybe if you’re British.
She half-smiled. Less than that even if you think about it in context because she was full smiling before I said anything, and went down to a half-smile after my comment. So my minor victory was that I didn’t completely sap her happiness. And that she didn’t slap me or something. Not that she had any reason to. But you don’t question hot girls about these things.
And so I sat in silence for the rest of the ride. Reeling from my pathetic attempt at flirtation. I held my bag in my lap, got off at my stop, and walked the two more blocks to work. I walked a little slower than usual.
"Bad start". Jesus. Bad start indeed.